


Grind

by LadyChi



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, dub-con, trope: screw or die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyChi/pseuds/LadyChi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity's plan to go undercover at Verdant to uncover who is manufacturing and distributing a deadly new date-rape drug goes terribly wrong when she falls under the influence of the drug. In order to control the effects of the drug, she and Oliver must act on feelings they've been repressing for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grind

**Author's Note:**

> I totally indulged myself with this fic. I am aware of the cliches and the tropes that this fic doesn't even try to fight. I just hope you enjoy the story. Please read the tags for warnings, though. I really don't want to trigger anyone.

Grind

  
  
  


The club lights at Verdant are flashing overhead when Felicity gets her first glass of the pink drink from the good-looking bartender in the plain white t-shirt to whom two years ago, she would have given more than a second look. She’s casing the crowd, looking around, trying to see if she can find Oliver and Digg in the pulsating crowd.

 

The party just really got started -- it’s ten p.m. and the DJ’s music is thumping the subwoofers so loud that the floor vibrates. It’s impossible to hear a word. Felicity takes a sip of her drink. It’s not what she usually orders, but the bartender recommended it, and Felicity will try anything once.

 

It’s good enough for now. There are a group of nearly-teenagers dancing in one corner of the room. One of the girls is wearing a tiara. She is, apparently, getting married. Felicity raises her glass in a silent salute when one of the party catches are staring. This is, apparently, a cue for the entire wedding party to drink. She joins them, taking a bigger mouthful than she might have otherwise.

 

Then -- she catches sight of Oliver.

 

Why did he have to wear that particular suit? She’s got a weakness for it. It’s silver, like most of his suits, but it picks up the color in his eyes and makes them seem like lazers, blue and clear and bright. He sees her looking at him, and Felicity quickly diverts her attention back to her own outfit, checking to make sure everything is still in place.

 

Felicity felt a little self-conscious in this dress when she first put it on. She remembers that much. There’s just not much material to it -- it dips between her breasts in the front, held together with a thin strap of fabric and hope, and there isn’t much to the back, either. It’s an attention-getting dress, the kind of dress she only wears when it’s her job to do precisely that.

 

For tonight, they’re tracking one of Count Vertigo’s many would-be replacements. It’s a brand new drug, a whisper on the streets, the effects of which are… varied and nasty. It’s marketed to men, to give to women as a date rape drug. It’s an aphrodisiac and an upper. Best case scenario, Felictiy remembers telling Oliver grimly: those lucky enough to encounter a partner suffer molestation and heart damage, or in the worst case scenario: rape, humiliation and death. Those women who managed to escape and come down on their own died of heart failure.

 

And it’s being marketed and sold in Verdant, not officially, of course,  but of the three overdose victims in the last week, two were last seen in Oliver Queen’s club. Which is doing wonders for his already tenuous grip on sanity.

 

So here she is, in a ridiculous dress and ridiculous shoes, with stupid amounts of hairspray in her hair, hoping to be the perfect bait for a drug dealer with the eye for the young and the beautiful.

 

Digg’s moving through the crowd, of course, one eye on her, as always, and Oliver’s eyes are on her, a tangible weight on the small of her back when she turns to the bar.  He’s not been crazy about this plan. Not since she first suggested it. Not when she showed up in this dress. Not when she’d teased her hair and painted her eyes and lips.

 

The thing of it is that she fits the victim profile perfectly. A little too perfectly. Young, blonde, conventionally attractive when she bothers with that sort of thing, and she’s young enough that she can sell a little bit of naivete in her voice, in her manner.

 

But Oliver hadn’t said anything. Not that she expected him to say anything. Because Oliver saying anything would be too much like admitting the tension that was all-too-palpable between the two of them actually existed. It would be too much like emoting. So he’d nodded when she volunteered, and proceeded to go a little bit crazy. She was sure she wouldn’t be able to pee without his supervision.

 

She takes another swallow of her drink. It’s no cabarnet sauvignon, but it’s fruity and slides down her throat smooth as glass. She almost can’t taste the alcohol in it. It’s the kind of drink that’s dangerous that way. It starts her thinking things that she probably shouldn’t.

 

Like about how Oliver’s hands are not where they should be. Sliding up her thighs, his breath hot on her neck, the music pulsing through them and around them -- that’s where they should be. But he’s standing across the club, looking at her.

 

Some of it is that he doesn’t want her hurt. She knows that. But she thinks maybe part of it is the way this dress looks on her, and the bright red lipstick she’s got a fondness for making her skin look luminous under the forgiving lights.

 

Felicity takes another sip of her drink. And it is going down smooth. Ah, she thinks, there’s the alcohol. It’s starting to do its job, settle in her stomach and warm her veins.

 

She starts to feel loose. A little free. Like her careful up-do is a little too much, a little too fussy. It’s hard to take a deep breath but she feels… something.  She wants to dance. There’s something magical about the beat of the music in this place, the lights that entice even reluctant clubgoers to join the revelry.

 

She wants to dance. With Oliver would be best, of course, with his flint-eyes and his perfect chest and all of that pain hidden just under the surface. She’d like to make it all go away, lift that cloud of doom and gloom, but keep the intensity of his eyes… his perfect, flint… oh, she had this thought already.

 

The drinks at Verdant are truly superb, she thinks. There’s only a little bit left in her glass…She just barely catches herself before she licks the last of the delicious pink liquid out of the glass. She’s drunkenly gesturing for another one when she hears Diggle’s voice in her ear.

 

“Felicity, are you sure you want to do that?”

 

She turns and catches sight of him. Diggle is a very good looking man. Who is in love with his sister-in-law, she reminds herself sternly. But still. Those big, strong hands on her body? She would bet money he’s a good dancer.

 

Dancing! She wants to dance!

 

She whirls and looks Diggle in the eye and uses her best professional voice. “I am very certain that I would like to dance.”

 

Diggle reaches for her glass and takes a sniff of it. “I don’t smell anything strange…”

 

“What? Can’t a girl just be in the mood to --” Felicity throws her arms in the hair dramatically -- “dance? Mmm.”

 

“Look at me. Straight at me.”

 

She wants to, she really wants to. But she also wants to dance. Hm. Follow orders like a good girl? Or listen to the needs of her body?

 

She never gives in to those darker voices in her head. She never relents for a minute. Always does the right thing. The moral thing. Stays loyal to her friends.

 

She’s a good girl, and Lord, is that tiring from time to time.

 

She takes her drink and knocks it back, pushing herself away from the bar. She looks fan-fucking-tastic in this dress. And since she doesn’t seem to be attracting the attention of any drug dealers….

 

Dancing.

 

She finds a place in the throng of bodies. Someone’s hand finds her thigh, helps her hips move in the right rhythm. It smells like sweat and alcohol and sex on the club floor. Expensive sex. It smells good to her in a way it’s never really smelled good before.

 

“Felicity.”

 

It’s not Diggle’s voice in her ear this time. It’s Oliver. And he’s pushing away the very nice man who’d been dancing with her before, with a firm hand and those hero-eyes of his. “Hi, Oliver. You have very serious eyes,” she says. “You should not have such serious eyes. Come dance with me. Isn’t this a great song?”

 

“Felicity.” Oliver pulls her close, dips his head close to her ear. She can’t stop her hips. They’re dancing with her back to his front, and her hips sway against his still body and the friction of the expensive fabric of his suit against her bare thighs makes her shiver with delight. “You remember. Phase one is euphoria.”

 

A cold chill slides down the back of her spine. She shakes it off.  “I’m not drugged. Can’t I just feel happy for a … for a minute?”

 

“Phase two is arousal,” Oliver continues, mercilessly, his hand on the edge of her hip and that’s all she can think about. “Phase three is increased heart rate.”

 

“Provided I’ve been given enough of the drug, in phase four, my heart goes boom,” Felicity says, but she can’t bring herself to be too upset about it because she’s been drugged, all right? And Oliver hotass Queen has his hand on her hips and maybe, just maybe, he’ll dance with her. Just once before she dies. A slow, grinding song.

 

“Come on, Felicity. I need you to focus.” His hands whip up, lightning fast, grab her face, force her to look at him.

 

“Your hand is on my hip. Or it was. That was easy to focus on.”

 

She hears Oliver draw in a sharp breath. It’s subtle; if she hadn’t been hyper aware of his every micro movement she might have missed it but now she knows, unequivocally, that she has -- is having -- an effect on Oliver. His other hand grabs her other hip, a little more roughly than sober Felicity would probably like. It sends a thrill right through her.

 

“Focus on me, Felicity. Answer my questions.”

 

“Mm.” A fraction of an inch and his hand would be in a delicious spot, a little-known erogenous zone she has just on the inside of her thigh. She wonders, if she begs, if he’ll press his thumbs there when he slips inside of her. “I can focus on you.”

 

“Did you see who made your drink?”

 

“New bartender. Thea introduced him. But I can’t think of his name. You have really, really big hands. I mean, not abnormally big. Just big. I haven’t ever really thought about it, but there it is, because now your hands are on my body and it’s just hard to miss.”

 

“Digg.” There’s something in Oliver’s voice. If she weren’t so focused on how he’s pressing her close, how his hand just can’t be still, it seems, how it slides the bottom hem of her dress up… and then lets it slide back down in some horrible game he’s playing with her libido, she might have noticed the sharpness in it.

 

“Clearing a path. You’ve got to get her out of here. I’ll put in a call to the doc -- see if he’s made any more progress, but you know what Barry said.”

 

It makes Oliver go stiff -- not in the fun way. In the way that it means that he’s closing down the walls on his eyes. Felicity whirls and looks up at him.

 

Arousal -- which had been, up until this point, sort of fun, hits her too hard and nearly knocks her to her knees. There’s something in his eyes. There’s something in the set of his mouth and how he’s looking at her right now. She could almost cry because his hands aren’t on her anymore.

 

“Oliver, please,” she finds herself saying. She’s not sure what she needs or what she’s even asking for but it’s starting to feel like there are needles in every pore of her skin, like she just might die.

 

“Felicity.” Oliver’s voice is deep and dark and serious. There’s a weight to it, almost like his Hood voice. She wonders if this is the voice he uses in quiet moments, if this is the voice he uses to talk to the women who find themselves between his sheets. “I need you to trust me, one hundred percent, okay?”

 

“Of course. You know you don’t even have to ask.”

 

“Good.” Oliver takes her hand, draws her away from the crowd. “I need you to come home with me.”

 

She agrees before she can even really process what her agreement means.

  
  


***

  
  


She tries to sit on the opposite side of the car from Oliver. She’s starting to come out of the haze; she’s starting to realize she doesn’t normally act this way, that she’s crossing some lines she shouldn’t have crossed.

 

It doesn’t mean that there’s not a fire in her blood or an ache down deep in her bones that makes her want to howl at the moon. It’s humiliating but it’s all she can do to keep from touching herself as he buckles himself in securely and raises the privacy glass between himself and the driver.

 

“Felicity,” Oliver says gently, “we’re going to have to try and control your panic and control your heart rate. We’re going to have to give you some… relief. Is there someone you want me to call? Someone who can help with this particular…? I mean… Barry?”

 

Felicity nearly sobs. “No, Oliver. There’s no one, okay? There’s no one. Just drop me off at my apartment. I can come down on my own, I swear….”

 

“No. You really can’t.” Oliver never looks away from her. It’s as honest as they’ve ever been with each other. “Someone’s got to monitor you… and…. all the research we’ve done suggests a partner helps so. It’s me or Digg, then.”

 

Felicity does cry. Laying her head on the window. Her hands, she clenches in her lap, pressing down on her pubic bone, hoping the pain will somehow distract her.  “You know this drug was likely developed for human traffickers, right? Make the girls oblivious, then make them desperate so they’ll do anything to make it stop…. oh God, Oliver, it hurts…”

 

Oliver’s seatbelt must not have been on properly because he’s suddenly right there, forcing her hands apart, lacing her fingers through his. “Felicity. I can make it stop. I can make it… less. I just need to know if you’re okay with this. At the very least, I need to know you’re not going to hate me for this.”

 

“This isn’t how I want this,” Felicity says, wiping her eyes. “This isn’t fair.”

 

“Felicity.”

 

“I thought, if we ever, you know--” Felicity shifts, grips his hands harder, clenches her teeth, “If we ever decided to, it would be… maybe it would be spontaneous but fun, you know? Like maybe -- oh god -- in the lair after a workout or something, or maybe you’d see me in one of those gorgeous undercover dresses you’re always buying for me and not be able to stop yourself, or maybe…. but it always started with you wanting me.”

 

There’s something warm on the back of her hand. She looks down to see Oliver’s lips pressed there.

 

“Felicity, you’ve got to know I want you. And this is -- this is not how I would want to do this either. But please let me help you. Please. I don’t think I could take it. I really don’t think I could take it something happened to you because we both let pride get in the way.”

 

“I --”

 

“When this is all over,” Oliver says grimly, “I swear to Christ. I will take you on a date and do this the right way. If you want. And there will be moonlight and flowers and soft string music and everything you deserve, but Felicity, if you don’t let me help you…”

 

Felicity nods her head helplessly.

 

“Oliver.” Digg’s voice comes in over the comms. “I’ve retrieved the bartender.”

 

“Good. Find out what he knows,” Oliver snaps. “Felicity and I will be… dealing with this.”

 

“Good luck,” Digg says simply.

 

**

 

By the time they get the Queen mansion, Felicity is a mess. Oliver’s got her firmly in his hands, and pulls her close to his body as he rushes her inside and up the stairs, waving a quick hello to his shocked mother.

 

The door slams behind them. And they fall on each other. Felicity can think nothing. Not in words. She’s reduced to pictures, sounds… feelings.

 

She remembers, later, that her dress came off in one piece. That he whispered to leave her shoes on. That he pulled her panties to the side and devoured her while she had her back against the door. That she came and it was like being pulled inside out, and it hurt rather than felt good, but it soaked her panties and eased the edge for a few moments.

 

She remembers taking off his suit, ripping the material on one of the arms. She remembers that his mouth went to her breast and sucked hard enough she saw stars and it was just a little vicious and she liked it. She remembers pushing him on the bed.

 

She remembers in perfect, vivid Technicolor taking him into her mouth and sucking him deep, the long, deep moan her actions drew from his gut, how he cursed at her in three different languages. How he begged.

 

How her sex ached and pulsed and felt so empty but she wanted him hard and ready so she played with her clit while she stroked him and Oliver told her that he wanted a picture of her doing that, that it was the sexiest fucking thing he’d ever seen.

 

She remembers… oh. The feel of him sliding home. How they’d both just -- stopped and looked at each other with this “oh, there are you” sort of feeling and how it had all felt right for just a split second.

 

She remembers…. That he came inside of her. That she arched back and begged him for more and he fucked her until he was soft and then he made her come again and again and again….

 

At the end of the night, when they can finally stop because Felicity doesn’t feel like she might die anymore and her heart rate is slowly dropping, Oliver helps her into the bathroom and they hold each other up while they shower.

 

They fall back into his bed, naked, and instantly slip into sleep.

  
  


***

“Felicity?”

 

She’s naked. And in Oliver’s bed. And every part of her is sore, even.. inside of her and… something happened last night.

 

It’s confusing. Who is saying her name?

 

“Felicity. I’m going to take some blood now, make sure that the drug is out of your system.”

 

“Barry?”

 

Felicity blinks, and realizes she’s covered in a sheet. That Oliver is too, that he’s wrapped around her and feigning sleep. She tucks her head in under Oliver’s chin, feels him tighten his grip on her.

 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t come in here, I promise, except that Digg told me what happened and I’ve got to know…”

 

Felicity sticks her arm out. “Just…. do what you need to do, Barry.”

 

“Okay. Do you need anything else?” Barry looks at her, and she can tell, he’s trying to ask her something significant. He’s trying to…

 

“No. I’m fine. It was… as consensual as it could be, under the circumstances.”

 

“What about… other consequences?”

 

Oliver’s arms twitch around her. Felicity sighs. “Can we just -- not? I’m fine, Barry. I promise. I’m on appropriate… measures.”

 

“Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.” Barry is nearly out of the door before he turns to her again. “Hey, Felicity?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m really, really sorry that this happened to you.”

 

Felicity swallows and nods.

 

Oliver doesn’t let her go while she cries and then fades back to sleep.

  
  


***

  
  


Oliver lets her borrow one of his long-sleeved tees, and fetches her gym shorts from Thea’s closet. He sits on the bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, watching her dress.  She slips the shorts over herself and turns to face Oliver.

 

“So. Uh. I guess the only appropriate thing to say in this situation is… thank you. I know that, um, without you, it probably wouldn’t have been good so. Thank you.”

 

Oliver waves off her apology. “How… I mean, this is going to sound stupid, but…” Oliver drops his hands in his lap. “How are you?”

 

“I’m…. mad,” Felicity says, surprised to find that it’s true. “I mean -- I… I don’t regret sleeping with you. Like at all. Zero complaints. In fact, gold star. Just for your tongue. Your fingers -- well. Anyway.”

 

A smirk crosses Oliver’s face.

 

“But I’m pissed that I was forced to. And I’m pissed that I didn’t notice that it was in my drink. And I’m pissed that this bastard basically got away with it and…I really, really want to punch whoever it was that spiked my drink in the throat.”

 

Felicity draws in a shaky breath. “And I’m so glad that you were with me, and you had my back. I can’t stop thinking about what those girls -- now that I know what it feels like, what that felt like, I can’t think about what those girls who didn’t have you or Digg looking out for them, what they must have went through.”

 

“While we were…” Oliver clears his throat. “Last night, while we were engaged with each other, Digg questioned the bartender. He admits to being the one who spiked your drink.”

 

Felicity sits, on the edge of the bed, suddenly, feels something rush to her head.

 

“He doesn’t, however, want to lead us to his source. He says he’s in fear for his life.” There’s disdain in Oliver’s voice as plain as day. “Digg thinks a visit from the Hood might… set him straight.”

 

Felicity swallows. “I’m sorry, Oliver. If I had noticed, then… you could have been taking care of this before and…”

 

“Hey. No.” Oliver stands up, lays a hand on her arm, cautiously, like they didn’t just exhaust themselves last night between the sheets. “Not your fault, okay? Completely and totally not your fault.”

 

“Okay.” Felicity closes her eyes, enjoys the sensation of him touching her without the drug running through her system. Without the sharpness, where everything was just a little too pointed. She sighs, and lays her head on his shoulder.

 

“I’m going to get this guy, Felicity. I’m going to bring his world crashing down around his ears.” His arms slowly fold around her, and she thinks that maybe she shouldn’t take so much comfort from that promise, but… she does.

 

***

 

Oliver leans on the bartender. Felicity doesn’t ask what he does or how he does it, but he gets the information they need to track down the manufacturer of the drug. And that confrontation ends spectacularly, with an explosion that Felicity was sure killed Oliver and Diggle both.

 

But they both survive, her boys, and they come back to her, shaking in her seat in the basement of Verdant, and when she hears them come through the door she flies at them, wrapping her arms around them both.

 

“I’m sorry, Felicity. I know you wanted to get your punches in,” Oliver says.

 

Felicity shakes her head. All along, the only thing she ever wanted was for it to be over.

 

***

 

She wakes up, a week later on a Saturday, because someone is ringing her doorbell. It’s a courier with a package. She signs for it, more than a little confused.

 

Felicity- the note reads - please enjoy the enclosed. See you tonight. Yours, OQ.

 

She rips open the packaging on the box, takes a deep breath, and flips open the lid. Inside is a gorgeous floor-length red gown. It’s incredibly soft to the touch, shows her off with a degree of class that Felicity only drools at in magazines.

 

Underneath the dress, shoes. And underneath the shoes, in a lockbox, jewelry.

 

Oliver Queen is taking her out tonight.

  
  


***

 

There is candlelight, of course. And dinner. And a balcony view of Starling City that is unparalleled. Oliver wears one of his fabulous suits and he laughs -- actually laughs, where his eyes crinkle up in the corners which is the best because that always surprises him -- when she makes a joke.

 

There’s good wine. Lots of it, spread over the four hours that they sit at the table and revel in each other.

 

The band plays ‘Moonlight Serenade’ and they dance, his hand on the small of her back. They wrap themselves up in each other and he kisses the side of her neck and she remembers when he did that before, right before he came inside her and she shivers.

 

“Felicity,” Oliver says in her ear. “I would very much like to take you home.”

 

She’s perfectly sober. She wants him desperately. She takes his hand and smiles.

 

“Lead the way.”

 


End file.
